Henry Howard[Earl of Surrey] (1517 - 19 January 1547 / Norfolk)
- by Henry Howard28
Brittle beauty that nature made so frail, Whereof the gift is small, and short the season, Flowering today, tomorrow apt to fail, Tickle treasure, abhorred of reason, [fragile] Dangerous to deal with, vain, of none avail, Costly in keeping, passed not worth two peason , [peas] Slipper in sliding as is an eel's tail, [slippery] Jewel of jeopardy that peril doth assail, False and untrue, enticed oft to treason, Enemy to youth: that most may I bewail. Ah, bitter sweet: infecting as the poison, Thou farest as fruit that with the frost is taken: Today ready ripe, tomorrow all to-shaken . [broken]
London, Hast Thou Accursed Me
- by Henry Howard27
London, hast thou accused me Of breach of laws, the root of strife? Within whose breast did boil to see, So fervent hot, thy dissolute life, That even the hate of sins that grow Within thy wicked walls so rife, For to break forth did convert so That terror could it not repress. The which, by words since preachers know What hope is left for to redress, By unknown means it liked me My hidden burden to express, Whereby it might appear to thee That secret sin hath secret spite; From justice' rod no fault is free; But that all such as work unright In most quiet are next ill rest. In secret silence of the night This made me, with a reckless breast, To wake thy sluggards with my bow-- A figure of the Lord's behest, Whose scourge for sin the Scriptures show. That, as the fearful thunder-clap By sudden flame at hand we know, Of pebble-stones the soundless rap The dreadful plague might make thee see Of God's wrath that doth thee enwrap; That pride might know, from conscience free How lofty works may her defend; And envy find, as he hath sought, How other seek him to offend; And wrath taste of each cruel thought The just shapp higher in the end; And idle sloth, that never wrought, To heaven his spirit lift may begin; And greedy lucre live in dread To see what hate ill-got goods win; The lechers, ye that lusts do feed, Perceive what secrecy is in sin; And gluttons' hearts for sorrow bleed, Awaked, when their fault they find: In loathsome vice each drunken wight To stir to God, this was my mind. Thy windows had done me no spite; But proud people that dread no fall, Clothed with falsehood and unright, Bred in the closures of thy wall; But wrested to wrath in fervent zeal, Thou haste to strife, my secret call. Endured hearts no warning feel. O shameless whore, is dread then gone By such thy foes as meant thy weal? O member of false Babylon! The shop of craft, the den of ire! Thy dreadful doom draws fast upon; Thy martyrs' blood, by sword and fire, In heaven and earth for justice call. The Lord shall hear their just desire; The flame of wrath shall on thee fall; With famine and pest lamentably Stricken shall be thy lechers all; Thy proud towers and turrets high, En'mies to God, beat stone from stone, Thine idols burnt that wrought iniquity; When none thy ruin shall bemoan, But render unto the right wise Lord That so hath judged Babylon, Immortal praise with one accord.
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